by Lola Rebel
The teacher did her best to keep her head down and keep moving to encourage that. If she didn't, who knew how long it would be before someone stopped her. Once they got inside, she reminded herself. They just had to get inside, and then they'd be safe. She could talk to Chris and they'd be able to hatch out some kind of plan.
Marie shouldered through another layer of the crowd. It seemed impossibly thick, all of them pressing to get even a little bit closer to the door. And as she moved, she pressed them in even tighter.
A voice went up, loud and clear. Loud enough that she, along with the entire crowd, stopped what they were doing and looked up.
The preacher was there. She'd seen him a few times, in passing. Not enough to know more than that about him. But it was easy to see the resemblance between him and the gray-haired man sitting on the seat beside him. No one stood near the coach, she saw. They seemed to have cleared a space. It wasn't until one of them shifted and she saw the rifle over the soldiers' shoulder that she realized how they'd done it.
A half-dozen men with military bearing and sour expressions on their faces held the crowd back far enough that there would be no risk of the crowd ever touching one solitary hair on the horses pulling the coach before they were dealt with. Swiftly, no doubt.
"People! You've heard the words of wanted men—and has Chris Broadmoor denied it? Never once!"
The crowd fell quieter still. The murmurs died down. There was someone in charge, now, and they'd wait for him to give the orders.
"I have spoken with you fine people about him more than once. And now you see, with your own eyes, that I have spoken the truth."
She pushed harder. There was a bad feeling in her gut.
"Are we going to allow that sort of man in our community?"
"No," someone cried out from the mob. Several other voices joined in. Marie pushed harder, and made it another couple of feet. In just a few more steps, she'd be there.
A hand grabbed around her arm.
"I've got his whore!"
She turned to find Mrs. Bradbury's face, beaming, her other arm held up high to show everyone exactly where the 'whore' was.
"Don't hurt her, dear. Just bring her here. We're not animals."
The crowd spread out, making room for them as she was pulled past. There was no hope of fighting, so Marie let them take her.
It was far, far too late to do anything else, now.
Thirty-Eight
Chris watched the doctor working with a tight jaw for a minute. He'd expect payment, at some point. That would be a problem. Hopefully, it would be a problem he could leave with Mick and Sheriff Roberts, but if it wasn't—well, he'd made the problem.
If things went sideways, then he'd have to be the one to deal with the consequences. He let out a long breath. His hips hurt from all the riding. It had been years since he'd spent that kind of time in the saddle, and now he was beginning to remember why he hadn't ever wanted to live that sort of life.
Sore, and here he was right back where he'd started the day, more tired and with nothing to show for it but a couple of broken men who had been fine when they went to bed the night before. The only one making out was the Doc, and even he had to be feeling the pressure, with two men in his care who, far as Chris could tell, might go at any moment.
He took a breath. There was a racket outside. People yelling, people shouting. No different than it had been on the way in, but now it was time to stop running away from it. If they wanted him, then by God, they were going to get him.
He looked down at the gun belt on his hip. The damn thing had caused more problems than it was worth. What use was it now? The only thing it would do if he wore it out into that crowd of people would be to convince folks he was every bit the killer they seemed to think he was.
Chris pulled the buckle loose and set it down.
"I'm gonna leave this here," he called into the other room. The doc didn't respond, not that he'd expected one. And then, with a breath like he was about to dip his head under the water, he stepped out through the doors.
Once the door opened, the sound of the crowd outside, riled up enough to start a war, hit him like a ton of bricks. It didn't take more than a moment for them to notice him coming through, and then near on two hundred souls all tried to come at him at once.
Chris let them grab him, let them pull him, handed from one to the next like a bucket of water during a house fire. And then he was standing, staring the priest down. The governor was still sitting, a sour expression on his face.
He didn't approach, once they'd passed him through the crowd, past the territorial soldiers. If they wanted him to come closer, they'd say so. Until then, he'd keep his distance. It was safer that way for everyone involved.
"You wanted to see me, Reverend?"
Marie was there, too. She looked fit to be tied, but she kept it bottled in. A good woman, one who knew when it might be better not to say anything. This was one of those times, he feared.
"Chris. Mr. Broadmoor. You have the nerve to come out here, and face these people, after all the trouble you've brought down on their heads?"
The bartender's shoulders slumped forward. "I ain't running away, if that's what you mean."
The preacher's expression remained unchanged, and Chris had a suspicion that it didn't much matter what he said next. Things were in motion, now, and all he could do was soften the blow.
"Your… loose morals, known throughout the community—" he paused for a moment when the crowd momentarily lost their composure, and then continued. "Are one thing, when it falls on your own head. You may corrupt the drunkards and vagrants going through your little bar."
Chris kept his mouth shut and straightened up. Whatever the man had to say, he could say. Weren't nothing that Chris could do about it in the first place, and if this was the penance he'd pay for his sins in the past, then he'd pay it.
"You might even, though it be shameful, seduce away some poor, innocent young woman whose faith has strayed." The way he looked over at Marie, like she was something on the bottom of his shoe, burned a fire in Chris's gut.
"You keep your mouth shut about Miss Bainbridge, or I'll—"
"You'll, what, shoot me with your pistol? Very civilized, Mr. Broadmoor. I suppose we all expect nothing more from a vagabond like yourself, but I'd hoped you could at least keep yourself in check for a few moments."
He clicked his teeth together and stared.
"But, in spite of all that, all we are willing to allow you—one thing that I, that my people, that the Lord God on high, cannot abide, is to spread this wickedness to children. To teach them the ways of evil."
Chris's eyes went wide. "You wouldn't."
The priest spoke softly. "Oh, I do what I must do, in order to ensure that the future generations, the children that I must protect, are not harmed by vultures like you."
"What is it you want from me?"
The priest's lips pinched together, and his eyebrows raised a little. Like he was surprised at having been asked. And further, like it didn't much matter.
"You seem to have misunderstood me, Mr. Broadmoor. I don't want anything from you. I've already made up my mind."
Chris's mind raced. If there was one thing he couldn't abide, not for a moment, it would be letting that boy suffer the same fate he'd suffered himself. To be left in a jungle like that—nobody deserved it. They ought to have a home, at least the closest they could get to it. People who cared for them, who kept them safe.
He took a breath and steadied himself before speaking.
"And what if I left town? What then?"
Thirty-Nine
Marie's jaw went tight when he made the suggestion. Perhaps, if there were some element of the entire plan that was logical, that relied on logic, then it would be able to work. But now, they weren't chasing out some man who had been successfully tarred with a bad name. They were purging the Chris from their town and from their souls.
It was a way of approaching the world that wa
s dangerous. Not only for Chris, though he was in the most immediate danger, but for the people themselves. The Catholic inside her burned to start lecturing them on repenting for their own sins, and looking inwardly. But that would only serve the purpose of having her sent out of town with him.
Not that it would be so bad, for her. Marie, at least, could solve all of her problems by simply going back home. No more bad reputation—after all, she'd been the one who was so kind as to go out and help those folks in the terrible wasteland of the Oklahoma territory. That was what people had said before she left, and no doubt that would be essentially what they said when she got back.
Her throat choked. Wait. A plan was beginning to form in her head.
"Chris!" He looked up at her through knit brows, with a look that said not to start it. That he would rather just let this all go the way it was going to go. It would have been fine by her, since he's the master of his own life. But not hers. "Do you feel sorry for what you've done?"
He sagged again. She could see it in him, all the air leaving him like he was an accordion. She couldn't hear his response, but anyone looking at him would have known what he said, even if they were deaf.
She twisted to look at the reverend. "I don't suppose they teach the Bible out here, in the West, do they? 'and if he repent, forgive him.'"
Marie didn't know what to expect from the preacher. Something. She expected him to turn on her like a villain from one of her dime store novels. But his eyes were blank when he looked at her. His expression was one of consideration.
"Are you asking me to forgive Mr. Broadmoor his sins?"
"I think it would be the Christian thing to do."
The preacher's expression was thoughtful, and then he went blank for a moment. She watched the wheels in his head turn. What was going to come next, she wondered. What was going to come next, and how could she deal with it?
"Brothers and Sisters!"
The crowd cheered. There may have been a time when this was based on religion, Marie thought. but that time was long since gone. They were here for spectacle.
"You, the good people of Applewood Junction—you have seen what I have seen. You have seen the people of our town, sinking into the pit. You have seen the corruption spreading! You have seen the effects of sin, when it seeps into the pores of the unprotected and unguided. But you—you have been kept clean, through your devotion."
Marie said nothing, her teeth chattering together. This was bad.
"But you have also heard me speak, over and over, of the power of the Lord to keep company with thieves and prostitutes, to cleanse them of sin, even Mary Magdalene, who was cleansed of seven demons. Here we have before us one such man. A man who has known sin, who has had a bellyful of corruption."
The crowd, the one that had been jeering, grew silent as he spoke. Marie's hand clutched at her dress, the priest's hand around her arm loosening its grip.
"Now, he asks us for forgiveness. And what have I said, up until now?"
The crowd suddenly started calling back, a thousand different things. Any one of them would be impossible to pick out of the cacophony, at least for the woman sitting there at the head of the crowd, listening from the seat of a stagecoach. The preacher waited until the crowd had died down before continuing.
"'For if ye forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you. But if ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses.' I have asked only repentance. Now, here he stands, and before us all, he repents. Do you not, Chris Broadmoor, repent of your sins?"
Chris looked up. Something was strange in the way he moved, and it took Marie a moment to realize what it was: he held every muscle in his body tight. It was as if he were afraid of how he might act. He spoke in a tight voice.
"Forgive me, Father," the bartender said, loud enough to be heard clearly, though he didn't call out loud like the preacher.
And then he looked down at the ground again. That was all it took for the crowd to start murmuring amongst themselves, a hundred voices or more all talking at once, wondering what they were supposed to make of this confession.
The preacher let Marie's arm go.
"And you, young lady? You seem to know your bible awful well for one outside of the Lord's grace."
He spoke now only to her. It occurred to Marie that this was the first time she'd met the preacher in this town, and that it was hardly a good first impression that they'd given each other.
"I was raised a Christian girl. But back in Ireland, a Catholic, my father was. And a Catholic, I am as well. So—"
The man looked at her blankly. "Then I suppose you wouldn't discuss it, would you?"
"No, father."
The preacher sat down. He had a calm demeanor, even when he was whipping the crowd into a fury. Forming impressions was difficult, in a situation like this one, but she was beginning to see where his habits separated from the situation, and she could see that steadfastness in him. He might have made a good Catholic priest, as well.
"Father—you can't let them take Jamie. I've heard the most awful stories about orphanages, and I simply cannot—"
He turned his eyes on her.
"I've already given you a fresh start, Miss Bainbridge. After all the controversy that you and your…" his eyes flicked over to Chris. "… friend, have caused, I would think that you might be in less of a hurry to make requests."
"And I would, Father, but I cannot let this go. I told you I was raised Christian, and I wasn't raised to leave a boy to the pit because it might not be convenient."
Her jaw tightened up as he considered it. She didn't have anything else to fall back on. But if she had read him right, then maybe—just maybe…
He nodded. "I see what you mean."
"Then, does that mean—"
He nodded again. "If you'll permit him to join us at church, and perhaps see fit to attend service yourself, then—"
She tried to thank him, but her teeth chattered and she knew that if she opened her mouth, not much but a sob would escape it. So she nodded, blinking back tears.
"Then go get him," the preacher said softly. "And go home. This crowd is blocking the road."
Epilogue
Chris leaned his head back against the wall. They'd been in the new house for a long time, now, more than a year. But there were still days that it seemed like he'd just moved in. Days when he wanted to turn to Marie, and tell her, 'you know, we're in our own place.'
Jamie sat cross-legged between his knees, watching Marie. Chris forced himself back under control, his body still not quite used to the work he'd been doing lately. Getting back into carpentry had been one thing. But working for hours out there, and then coming back to work on his own house, took a heavy toll.
That pain was something he could deal with later, though. Today wasn't a day for him. He could complain tomorrow, when they were coming home from church. It still felt strange and foreign to be going, even after all this time. He hadn't been in a church, aside from passing through, since he was Jamie's age.
"How's she doing?"
Marie looked up and smiled. She didn't look half as tired as she must have felt. Claire was just starting to think about sleeping through the night, but that didn't make up for months of Marie being the one to spend all night lulling her back to rest. Nothing ever would, but his wife never complained.
"She's good. Do you want to hold her?"
Chris smiled, pushing himself up and ignoring his body's protests. "You know I do, Mrs. Broadmoor."
He took the baby in one big arm. She was so big, now, and yet even though Claire had more than doubled in size since she was born, she was so small, too.
"Hey, little girly. Happy birthday. Are you being nice to your Momma?"
"She's being a little sweetheart—like she always is around Daddy."
Jamie smiled at her and Claire cooed and gurgled. Chris couldn't help the smile spreading across his face.
"What a good girl
."
The little girl squirmed in his arms, desperate to be put down. Chris let her down slow, and the minute her kicking legs found the floor, she wobbled to find her balance. He'd never known how much it would mean to see someone walking across the room. Not before Claire.
But now, watching her, he couldn't help but smile.
"Are you alright, hon?"
Marie looked over at him. "Don't tell me you're worried," she said. "About little old me?"
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly as Claire tried valiantly, ultimately fruitlessly, to climb into the seat of a chair that was nearly as high as she was tall.
"I'm always worried, when it comes to you."
"That's why you're the husband," she teased. "Always fussing. You ought to try having a child some time."
He raised an eyebrow at her and gave a smile that said all he needed to say. "Another one, you mean?"
Time Bomb ??
On The Run Romance
She was the only woman he ever really loved.
She's on the run from the FBI...
He has to help her escape...
She has amnesia...
Only he remembers their sordid past...
As long as he can keep her safe, he doesn't care what happens to him.
Please enjoy this preview…
Misty liked the feeling of pressing herself against him. She liked the way that he reacted to it. She liked the hard feeling of his muscles, under his shirt. She even liked the feeling of his stubble, scratching her cheek as she pressed a line of kisses across his throat.
The thought that it was the same path she might use to cut it, if there was need for violence, popped up and then faded into thankful forgetfulness.
Misty shifted her position to hold Grant tighter, his broad hips pressed between her thighs and reminding her in an instant that there was nothing else going wrong in their lives right now. She was good at forgetting. At least, she could try to forget. And that was all she needed.